


sequestration

by corsairspade



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: As there are no names for them, Canon-Typical Violence, Dehumanization, Gen, I'm not sure how to tag how Tsumugi treats Rantaro, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-canonical names for Rantaro's sisters, Objectification, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Game Amami Rantaro, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Pre-Game Shirogane Tsumugi, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, but it's not healthy, house arrest, perhaps?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 02:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20323828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corsairspade/pseuds/corsairspade
Summary: Rantaro doesn’t know his neighbors, his landlady, or even the address of his apartment.What he does know, is the uncomfortable weight of the house arrest anklet, rubbing against his bare skin, no matter what he tries to do to stop it. It’s garish, he thinks. The stylized Danganronpa symbol glows faintly in the dark of the room, making everything look like it’s dripping with red.(or; Rantaro Amami, before season 53, and the trauma that comes with it)





	sequestration

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is the grinning face of a woman in a business outfit, with a logo on the lapel.

“Welcome back, Rantaro! Congratulations on winning season fifty-two of Danganronpa! It’s been a while since someone got away with murder! We were so very impressed back at headquarters. I guess that’s why you’re our poster boy, eh? Three seasons, each with such different endings! It may be a little inappropriate for me to say so, but I really have been rooting for you.”

He squints against the glare of fluorescent lights and passes back out.

* * *

Rantaro doesn’t know his neighbors, his landlady, or even the address of his apartment. What he does know, is the uncomfortable weight of the house arrest anklet, rubbing against his bare skin, no matter what he tries to do to stop it. It’s garish, he thinks. The stylized Danganronpa symbol glows faintly in the dark of the room, making everything look like it’s dripping with red. He knows exactly how close he can stand to the door without collapsing to the floor, electricity jolting through him, how long he can look out the windows before a cordial, detached note appears under his door the next morning, with clear instructions that he mustn’t touch the glass. It’s not like he could do anything to it- the thick window panes are bulletproof, installed by Team Danganronpa on their purchase of the tiny apartment. He’s a “flight risk”, apparently. They want him safe and secure at their little not-prison. Like keeping an action figure in its box so it’s protected until they next want to play with it. He ignores the fact that it means he’s an object to them. He already knows that, and lingering on it only makes the wound more uncomfortable.

He’s pretty sure that there are cameras around. It’s not as if he can see them, but the itch of being watched that he grew so familiar over the three seasons he’s already been through makes him shudder. There might not be, though. He could be paranoid. If he is- well, it’ll just make things easier for when they wipe his mind clear. Make him jittery, untrusting. Boost their ratings. He wonders who Rantaro Amami will be next season? He hopes he’s kind. He’s spent a lot of his time as scared and cruel. And while that’s kept him alive… maybe kind and dead is better.

He bangs on the windows in a fit of rage on his third week of solitary confinement. The fridge is always stocked, the trash always taken out. Rantaro is terrified that people come in and he hasn’t seen them. He’s starved for interaction now, and pounding at the glass is the only way he can think of that might get someone’s attention. He gets three dull strikes in before he feels the too familiar jolt of the anklet racing up his leg. He crumples to the floor in agony, before everything slowly fades to black. He struggles to keep his eyes open, but there’s no fighting his own body, and they slide closed with disturbing finality.

When he wakes up, he’s situated on the plush couch in the corner, head resting comfortably on some pillows. He’s wearing different clothes, which means he’s either missing parts of his memory, or someone changed them for him, and he can’t tell which would be worse. On the countertop, a small envelope rests, the Danganronpa symbol dark against the crisp white background. He hauls himself to his feet, feeling the ache of his underused muscles straining, as he stretches slowly and shuffles to where the innocuous package sits. It takes a moment to muster up the energy to sit on one of the bench chairs, but he manages it, with some effort. He reaches out for the envelope, prepared for the admonishment for his useless show of rebellion. What he’s not prepared for, is three pictures, in startling high definition. A trio of girls with similar features, all at the same school. He recognizes them straight away, of course- those features are so similar to the ones he sees in the mirror, albeit less gaunt and more feminine. Chiyoko and Mitsuko, the twins, are slightly taller than Sakiko, being around a year older. They’re not unhappy, per se, but Rantaro knows his sisters better than he knows himself at this point- there’s an edge of tension to Chiyoko’s shoulders, and Sakiko’s clothes are less purposefully rumpled and more disheveled from lack of energy. Mitsuko’s smile is forced.

There’s a shadowed figure in all three pictures. If Rantaro wasn’t looking for it, he wouldn’t have seen it, but he was, so he did. He can faintly make out the dual tone of a Monokuma mask.

He behaves himself for the next few weeks. He knows what the images mean. What they implied. His near-catatonic gazing shifts from the window to the door, where he sits in darkness.

* * *

It’s a Friday when the Danganronpa Team visits for the first time in months- not that Rantaro has anything to keep track of the date, nor if he did, would he have the energy to check. Like carving tallies into a cell wall, it’s not as if it matters. The light from his anklet fades away. He’s dragged to his feet, then outside. He doesn’t bother fighting, nor does he bother helping, letting himself be limp and easily maneuvered. Dead weight in the arms of two heavy set guards. There’s a man in a business suit, as well as a plain looking girl with long blue hair. He’s bundled into the back of the van, hands cuffed. The man starts speaking, but Rantaro barely hears it. There’s a dull ringing in his ears as he melts into the almost painful grips on his shoulders. It’s the first touch he’s experienced in months and he can’t help but sink into it.

“Sorry,” the man in the suit speaks. His voice is flat and disingenuous. “We can’t risk you attacking us and trying to escape.”

But the plain girl is staring at Rantaro, bland blue eyes bright and star struck— if not a little foggy and distant. “So! You’re Rantaro Amami.” Her voice is high and breathy, like she can’t believe this is reality. He can relate, somewhat. Despite her voice’s softness, it grates on his ears like nails on a chalkboard being played over speakers with feedback issues. He casts an empty glare her way, which she doesn’t seem to catch. Or, if she does, she doesn’t care.

“Are you excited about your next round of Danganronpa? I don’t see how you couldn’t be! Well, actually... I’ve heard about how you’ve been lately, so I think they’re gonna wipe your memory just for compliance sake!” She gives a soft giggle, a finger on her cheek as she thinks, before snapping out of it.

“Oh! My my my, where are my manners? I’m Tsumugi Shirogane.” She holds her hand out to him before giggling again when the cuffs register in her mind. “Oh, right, sorry Rantaro!”

He doesn’t like the presumption that she can call him by his first name. But that doesn’t really matter, so he stays quiet, watching her blankly. He considers asking her questions, but he can’t trust her not to lie, or his own voice to work. He hasn’t spoken in weeks. She breezes past that fact, filling the vehicle with her chatter.

“You’ve got a little interview today, mmkay? Season fifty-three is coming up and you’ve been such a hit since your start in season fifty that the fans are just jumping up and down with excitement over what you’re going to do next season.”

53, Rantaro registers dully. Three killing games so far. One more to go. He remembers the superstition about four being the number of death. He silently prays that superstition is on his side for once and stays true. He continues the trip in silence, letting Shirogane babble on. It seems that she’s to take on an important role next season. She doesn’t say what, but Rantaro’s betting she’s the mastermind. She has that excitedly violent air to her that he thinks he remembers from the last few he had to deal with. Despite his lack of response, she doesn’t let up on her monologuing, assuming positive responses from Rantaro.

Eventually, they arrive at their destination. He’s hauled into a nondescript building, that he wouldn’t have spared a second glance to, Shirogane and the man in the suit leading the way. A guided tour, Rantaro realizes. He tunes out the description of workrooms and break times. It doesn’t matter. They stop at a place that Shirogane excitedly describes as costuming, and he’s dragged inside. Bolts of cloth lie around a carpeted workspace, and he spots a sectioned off area with tiles on the floor, which Shirogane explains is a bathroom with a shower.

Ah. He’s here to be dressed up. Which involves dressing down first. The man in the suit makes a remark about leaving him in Shirogane’s care, then leaves. Rantaro struggles a little in the iron grip on his shoulders, and the girl in front of him does her infuriating giggle again, a touch of malice beneath it all.

“Aww,” She coos, like an owner over a pet. “It’s alright, Rantaro! No need to worry your pretty little head. You know your anklet is waterproof! You won’t have to deal with any nasty owies. You’re my prized possession! The ultimate survivor!”

And there it is- He’s her thing, now. They all know it.

He goes limp again, and Shirogane beams at him.

“Good boy.”

She gestures for the guards to take him to the shower, and as he stumbles onto the cold tiles, they back away. He heaves a sigh of relief, as one of them pulls out a key for his cuffs. Shirogane watches on, with clinical detachment.

“Now, Rantaro! I’m trusting you to wash up properly, alright? I’d hate for you to have to be manhandled into it, so you have to behave.”

He bristles at being treated like a child, but nods once, harsh and brief. The cuffs are released and he scrambles backward on instinct, almost falling over. He’s given instructions on where to place his clothes and how to wash his hair, and the door is closed. He sags, the tension draining out of him, and begins to follow his orders. He doesn’t bother looking around for potential weapons, or cameras. He won’t be able to find either.

He takes as long as he can in the shower, breath catching when he hears someone quietly enter, then leave the room. When he knows he can’t afford any longer, he cautiously steps out. No one’s there, which doesn’t mean nothing is wrong. He somewhat expected the fact that his clothes have been removed. Or well- replaced. They’ve given him boxers, which is better than nothing. Small mercies. He dries off and tugs them on.

He’s so very uncomfortable. He pushes the door to the workspace open, distinctly aware of his bare feet on the transition to carpet, his slightly damp hair on the back of his neck, Shirogane’s appraising eye over his torso.

After taking a long, slow gaze at, what Rantaro now figures, she thinks of as a dress up doll, Shirogane stops with a slight bounce on her feet, clapping eagerly. “Very good! Now, your measurements have been taken, and adjustments have been made. Drumroll, please!” She trots off somewhere before coming back with an exact replica of his costume from his first game.

“Haha! Don’t you love it?” Excitement lights up her face. “It’s a perfect replica, Rantaro! We figured it would make a lovely callback to your first season.”

A heavy pit forms in Rantaro’s stomach. He stares for a moment before tearing his gaze away. He feels like he could get sick at any moment, despite not having eaten yet that day. Suddenly, it’s like he’s drowning, head spinning and ears ringing. Outwardly, his eyes glaze over, as though he is zoning out Shirogane’s speech. A brief frown crosses her face, but she quickly smiles.

“That’s alright, we have more options.” She waves him off, as though tutting a toddler as she searches through the costumes strewn about. The scrape of metal grates against his nerves, as hangers are flipped through. The blue haired girl continues to talk as she looks, running through possible questions that he might have to answer for his interview. It’s with a sickly sweet grin that he’s informed he should answer with a smile. After all, Danganronpa is such a wonderful game to be a part of, there’s absolutely no reason to appear bored— Or heaven forbid, sad!

He’s passed different outfits and dutifully puts them on, allowing Shirogane to flutter about him, doing up buttons, or tying his ties with different knots. His pants get caught on his anklet a couple of times, but they both ignore it. It takes a while to find even one piece of clothing she decides she wants him to keep on. He can’t help but press into her lingering touches, disgusted with how much he craves physical contact. He tenses every time she stands behind him, every instinct screaming that she’s going to attack.

She leans forward to button his shirt for him, and her words drift from the interview to how much she adored him from his beginning in season 50, his tragic and brief burgeoning romance. She waxes lyrical about the grief-filled begging during season 51, studying the closed over holes on his ears, where he used to have his piercings. It’s when she tugs a soft brown jumper over his head and guides his arms through the holes, beginning to describe the way he set up the murder in season 52 when he cracks.

“Stop.”

His voice is weak, ragged, his vocal cords unused to the ferocity he spits out the single word with. Shirogane actually jolts, before she clutches his hands with such voracious excitement, he flinches, unable to cover his face with his hands due to the white knuckled grip she has.

“Oh, you’re speaking again! I was beginning to worry about you, you know?”

Just as the blue haired girl begins to fuss over Rantaro’s voice, gibbering on with childish glee, a voice plays over the backstage speakers, calling for places. A pout graces her plain features, but she fusses over his clothes for another moment before giving a satisfied nod.

“Well, that’s it for now, Rantaro! I’ll see you again soon!” She chimed happily. “And don’t worry, I’ll be watching the whole interview! You’ll have someone cheering you on the entire time.”

* * *

Rantaro can’t help but fiddle with the sleeves of his shirt, as people bustle around, treating him as part of the set. He’s positioned in a chair that looks comfortable but digs into his back. The makeup on his face hides the deep bags under his eyes, and the thick mascara on his lashes makes him aware of his blinking.

Everything feels like it’s moving through tar, and he shivers, unused to the hubbub around him. Another chair is placed down, and cameras are moved into position. Rantaro is pulled into recalling his first ever interview, for season 50. He remembers the live audience cooing over his reasoning to join, the pictures of him with his sisters. Of course, there’s no live audience now, and he’s certain this interview is going to be heavily edited before it ever graces the airwaves.

His interviewer is a man who doesn’t seem to fit properly into his pinstriped suit, black shoes a half size too big. He leans forward slightly and smiles at Rantaro, speaking in a low voice.

“I’m sure you know how to behave today, Amami. I’ve heard all about how troublesome you’ve been lately, and I want none of that here. I’m Hiroshi. Be sure to remember that.”

Rantaro nods jerkily, tears threatening to well up in his eyes. He leans back slightly and waits for set up to be complete. One last light is flicked on, and suddenly the set is clear bar him and the interviewer. The director surveys them for a moment, before shouting out- “Action!” - The lights flare and the cameras start rolling. Familiar territory.

“Hello and welcome back to Dangan-Mensetsu, devoted fans! Today, to celebrate the announcement of auditions for season 53, we have an interview with a very special guest! I know him, you know him- It’s fan-favorite, Rantaro Amami, the ultimate adventurer! Say hello, Rantaro.”

Rantaro stares for a half-second, before realizing that’s his cue. He can do this- he has done this. After the first killing game there were countless interviews, and after the second, even more. He’s lucky that this is the first one he’s had to deal with since season 52. So he just breathes out and lets a tinned smile spread across his face. When he answers, his voice cracks slightly, still rough and scratchy, but he recovers with barely a stumble.

“Hello, Hiroshi. It’s a pleasure to be here. I can’t believe auditions for next season are starting so soon. It feels like only yesterday the last one ended.”

He completes the practiced line with a soft laugh. This is- familiar. Almost calming in a sense.

“Time does seem to fly, and I’m sure you’re ready for whatever comes next! How do you feel about going into a new game, Rantaro?”

Lean back, cross a foot over your knee. Steeple your fingers. A calculating look. Rantaro lists his movements carefully in his head, remembering the pictures of his sisters he received so many weeks ago.

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said nervous, do you? I know- I know, I'm quite the veteran of these, but with the diversity of applicants, I'll be up against people, the likes of which I've never faced before. But I’m eager to get to meet them. See who was picked to be front and center, so to speak.”  
Hiroshi gives him a thin lipped smile, and Rantaro feels himself sinking further into his pleasant facade. This is, by far, the easiest thing he’s done all day.

“Speaking of those front and center, do you have any advice for those that do get roles in the upcoming season?”

Rantaro tilts his head. It may look natural, but it’s practiced and fake, much like the rest of this interview.

“Not that they’d remember it, but stay wary, I guess. It’s hard to do that sometimes, and sometimes that can come to haunt you.”

  
A flash of melancholy flickers over his face, before he can catch it, and Hiroshi gives him the most plastic look of sympathy that Rantaro has ever encountered.

“I assume you’d know the consequences of that more than anyone, what with your doomed romance in season 50 with the masterm-”

Rantaro cuts him off, voice filled with vitriol. His fingers clench the arms of the chair he’s in, and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

“I’d _prefer_ not to talk about that, please.”

It’s framed as a request, but Rantaro knows what he looks like- he’s already a murderer. He looks like he wants to do it again.

The rest of the interview passes without incident, the questions filtering in one ear and out the other, his answers given with robotic, forced calm. Is there anything from the past games you’d change? (Yes, of course, but he can’t say that). Who’s been your favorite Mastermind so far? (He hated the idea of masterminds in general, but he answers truthfully- his second one, seeing that he had the decency not to play with Rantaro’s heart like the first or drive him to murder like the third). What talent did you pick for this round? (He didn’t. He doesn’t even have to put that one sweetly). Do you have any hopes or expectations for this season? (To get out. He doesn’t specify getting out alive, but the interviewer seems to like that answer). Are you excited for the chance of a fourth win in a row? (He doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. No need to get cocky. And no one wins in danganronpa.)

He focuses on the idea of his sisters, instead. The way they’d drag him into painting their nails, talk him taking them to movies they needed supervision for. It makes him intensely nostalgic- and aware of just how alone he is. It’s been at least two years since he saw his sisters. He wonders if Kiari has worked up the courage to ask for dance lessons, or if Honoka is walking yet.

He’s brought out of his daze by a question that he actually wants to answer.

“If you could send a message to anyone out there- your fans, your friends, your family- what would you want them to know?”

He sits up straighter, and with the utmost sincerity he can muster, the most emotion he’s given away in an interview ever, he talks.

He talks about how much he loves his sisters- how he’s doing this for them, and prays every day that they’re safe and well fed and most of all, happy. His throat is ragged and he wishes he could drink some water, but his sisters are more important than his comfort. He can’t say everything he wants to- how he wishes he’d never joined danganronpa so that he could have protected them in person, how he fears for them every day- but he can say enough. It’s enough. It has to be enough for the executives to allow on air, the image of notoriously level headed Rantaro Amami so passionate and truthful.

He needs his sisters to know he loves them.

As the interview continues on, Rantaro grows more on edge. He can’t tell what it is, but it starts to feel like some sort of ball is about to drop. Like he’s in the front car of a roller coaster, looking down at the fall to come. His head is filled with a buzz, and he lets himself fall back into autopilot, receding into himself.

But then it comes. His heart goes from his throat to his feet in two seconds at most.

“Have you heard from your sisters yet?”  
  
_Keep them out of your mouth you filthy rat bastard, have I not given you enough of my grief—_  
“Ah... No, not yet. My schedule is kept pretty tight, so I haven’t gotten a chance to check up on them.” He remembers hearing Tsumugi say something about that being the answer to give when that came up as she was using him as a dress-up doll. But still, the man in the ill-fitting suit continues. “Well, we’ve been given special access to some letters they wrote for you! And we wanted to give them to you before the games begin.”

A sizable stack of envelopes, some even beginning to crinkle and turn faintly yellow with age, probably from being stored away this whole time in some dark and musty place, is handed to Rantaro. He knows they’ve been waiting for this, been keeping these from him. They want to wrench out every last shred of suffering from him. He’s nothing to them but their precious doll, poised for manipulation. He supposes it’s not vain to think about how his entertainment value must be pretty great.

The world crashes back to him like a wave as he gingerly takes the stack of envelopes, his trembling hands causing them to rustle slightly. His throat is dry, and somehow even more painful than before. Part of him fills with unspeakable rage. The other part swirls with desperate sadness and yearning for his home. His family. All he can manage is a careful, almost frightened- “Thank you, I’ll read these when I get back.”

Hiroshi seems to want to push for him to open the letters here and now, but Rantaro holds them tightly and lets the slightest crack show in his veneer of awareness. The director makes a comment out of range of the mics, and Rantaro tenses for a moment, before he sees the director make a gesture at his current torturer, who begins to wrap up the interview. He feels like he could vomit, but mostly he just wants to cry and read his letters alone. Today has been far too much, all at once.

He barely registers how he’s carted back to his apartment, the ride spent clutching to the letters like a lifeline. He’s mercifully left out of cuffs, and when he stumbles up the steps into the apartment complex, he notices that it’s dark out. He doesn’t get a chance to admire the outdoors, as he’s bustled in and carted off to his dressed up prison cell. As he steps through the door, he hears the hum of his anklet turning back on, and then the click of the lock behind him. Alone at last. He gingerly places the envelopes on his bench, before sinking to the ground, arms wrapped around his knees, pulled tight to his chest.

He stays there for a while and just cries. It feels good, to be sad. It’s at least better than feeling nothing at all. 

* * *

He decides to take a shower before reading the letters, even though he took one earlier at Shirogane’s workspace. The simple thought of her possessive hands on him and her sickly smile make him shudder. It also makes him want to wash away the grip of Danganronpa on his body. Scrub his skin bright pink to get the smell of the detergent on the clothes he was given and the faint flowery scent of Shirogane’s cloying perfume off of him.

So he does. It takes some effort to wipe the tear tracks of mascara away, and he cringes as he performs the skincare routine ingrained into him by their conditioning. But he’s clean of the smog from earlier today, and the pajamas he chooses are comfortingly bland and ever so slightly stiff, imperfect. Not like the carefully fitted clothes she had tugged over his head. He feels a little more human, after all that.

He slowly makes his way to the bench again, both physically and mentally drained. The toll of the day seems to be catching up to him, but he doesn’t have the willpower to put off the letters for any longer. He sits and starts ordering the pile, the oldest looking to the newest. They’re all addressed to the Danganronpa headquarters, and that makes him choke back a sob. But he’s spent enough time on crying. Now is the time to read.

* * *

  
Dear ‘Taro,  
Hello from back home! We all miss you dreadfully, even though it’s only been a week. Everyone’s been fighting over who should be the one to write to you, as we can’t send 12 letters at once (don’t get an ego, stupidhead)! Because I am now the oldest in the household, I’ve taken it upon myself to update you on what’s going on- we hope you can return in kind before you have to enter the game, but we understand if you can’t! We’ll cheer you on, no matter what. (Though, I am restricting viewership of everything but the nice parts to the oldest among us. I hope you approve.)

Your endless lists have come in useful, and I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you when you said that they’d help with balancing everything. Don’t expect a face-to-face apology when you get back. It’s stupid enough to have to write one down! But hey, I know when I’m wrong. Aren’t I humble, huh? Who knew it was such a chore to go grocery shopping or get everyone to school on time?

Honoka cries all the time without you to get her to sleep. Should I be investing in noise-canceling headphones and delegating??

I’m kidding. Duh.

Jeez, writing letters is weird. No wonder it’s basically obsolete.

We’re running a bet over what your talent is going to be- winner gets control of the TV remote for a week. So you better be some sort of childcare worker, or I’m gonna end up watching cartoons and nothing else.

You’ve got this in the bag, alright? I believe in you, and so does everyone else, you giant dork. The mastermind won’t know what hit them if you bust out your sick macrame skills. Knit your way to freedom! Season 50 may have some dumb gimmick cause it's a "milestone" or whatever, but you'd better before summer vacation starts!

Lots of love,

Izumi  
(And everyone else, I guess!) 

* * *

Rantaro can’t stop smiling. It’s not as if there’s no melancholy curling around his ribs like vines, slowly suffocating him, but as he traces Izumi’s careful characters with his fingers, he grins like an idiot, heart fluttering like a butterfly. He may not have come back before summer vacation but he can almost hear Izumi's voice in her words.

As he reads each letter, he gets updated on each of his sisters- the fights they’ve gotten in, how they’re dealing with their mother and father. He finds out about their birthdays, and his. He feels a pit form in his stomach as boyfriends and girlfriends and break ups are described. He finds out how much they miss him, how much energy it clearly takes out of them to see him in danger on-screen, the delighted feeling that no matter what he doesn’t forget them.

It’s the happiest he’s been in- he can’t recall. He falls asleep at the bench that night. When he wakes up the next day, he’s going to have some pretty awful neck pain, and he’ll be embarrassed about the drool on the bench.

But for now, he sleeps, and dreams of his sisters. There’s no sign of the blood that normally blazes behind his eyelids as he rests, or the feeling of ribs crushing under his hands.

Tomorrow, he’ll deal with what comes, the dull monotony returning, or even Shirogane returning to judge what to do with his memories and sense of self.

That’s for tomorrow, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my beta, Michael, for not only his amazing help with the inspiration for this work, but also for the absolutely incredible assistance with the Tsumugi interp as well as some of the passages??? I could not have a better helper!! Find his Insta here: https://www.instagram.com/youremyonlydreamboy
> 
> This fic has been inspired by the following pieces and in full knowledge of the artist! Please check them out and send them all the love in the world!!  
https://instagram.com/p/B09VSDfgltJ/  
https://instagram.com/p/B1RZa-Egj_7/
> 
> If you'd like to see more, please comment. If you'd like to chat or see my other works, find me as kamukuraproject_ on instagram!


End file.
